Pink Izods and the Galleria; or, Deborah Foreman, Where Are You?

Let me first just say that Nick Cage and that insufferable "duh" expression do not seem to to deserve the absolute rapt enchantment on Deborah Foreman (aka Julie Richmond)'s face. Does she think she's looking at a Rick Springfield poster?

When I was still teetering around on my Strawberry Shortcake training wheels,the blonde high school girl across the street had a pink-lighted dressing-table mirror, a ruffly white canopy bed and a boyfriend with a black Camaro. I used to watch her skip out of the garage and hop in that shuddering charcoal machine, headed for uncertain destinations and mysterious teenage dalliances.

The bouncy 1983 flick Valley Girl is deliciously nostalgic like that; as pop-culturally-fascinating as Sloane Peterson's white fringed leather jacket (I so coveted that thing) and those over-the-top Can't Buy Me Love house parties (speaking of white fringed leather apparel - is this a pattern?).

Deborah Foreman is Julie Richmond, in pastel sweaters, a teeny red bikini, mirrored sunglasses and that universally unflattering early-80s shag haircut. (Sue Ellen Ewing, anyone?) She has hippie parents and snobby friends who hang out at sleepovers in their underwear. The underwear is, of course, cute, and no one is scary-thin. Ruffles and Oreos are eaten, Modern English and Men at Work are played. Julie wears a Jessica McClintock dress to the prom - remember those? - and there is, obviously, plenty of Moon Zappa-esque Val-speak. I could watch the movie for an undetermined amount of repeats; it's like a hot-pink, glittery valentine to the 80s.

I have no idea where Ms. Foreman is now, but she needs to finagle a comeback. Like fer sure.

“When I get the mean reds, I just hop in a cab and go to Tiffany's. . .”

Recently I got it in my head that I needed a Tiffany key necklace. And, as my husband Joe knows all too well (and deigns to point out on a regular basis, at least too regular for my taste), once I get an idea in my head, I just really need to go through with it. Unfortunately, like Holly Golightly, about the only thing I could afford at Tiffany's is that stupid sterling silver telephone dialer. Sigh. But, oh, how I love those nonsensical keys. Tiffany's could coat a tampon in platinum, call it kitschy and cute, and I would probably wear it around my neck. (On the 25-inch matching platinum chain, please).
So, on a recent anniversary trip to Door County, my aforementioned darling husband bought me a similar bauble, albeit not of the Tiffany variety. I found a charmingly rusted old skeleton key in a bead shop run by some hippy-dippy chick in a Mia Farrow haircut, leather choker and la-la land. Mia put the key on a thin leather strand, added some particularly special sterling bead (it's from Tibet? I have no idea) and, voila, I have my dream necklace, or a semblance of it. Check it out – I'm partial to the mystery engravings on the back. Holly would be proud. Maybe I can start calling Joe “Fred”.

Thirteen-inch calves? Shut the hell up.

So, I'm fairly educated, a voracious reader, a bit of a history buff, etc. I understand that, once upon a time, before the advent of pizza delivery and the KFC Double Down, people were just smaller and, in relation, probably healthier. I get it. (Hey, it's 1920 and we don't get botulism anymore! Thanks, modern canned goods!). But thanks to my new favorite website, enokiworld, there must be a bigger sea of skinny fashion divas out there than I previously assumed.
Ok - if you haven't been to www.enokiworld.com, please, by all means, put down whatever you are doing and look right now. It's an online treasure trove of vintage clothing and accessories. It's gorgeous. It takes my breath away. It makes me wish I were spectacularly rich and spectrally thin, both of which I am definitely not. It also makes me feel like a gargantuan freak, because those fabulous 1960s Courreges vinyl boots have a measly calf circumference of 12.5 inches. Maybe, if I can scrounge up the $300, I can wear them on my forearms. Thanks for nothin', Twiggy.

Are you there, Tori Spelling? It's me, Amanda.

I have an iPod and several burned CDs scattered around the glove compartment of my car, and amongst those scratched silver discs lurks. . . GASP!. . . Tori Spelling's second book! On compact disc! Noooo!
But seriously, I bought it. Myself. (At the time I did have a four-hour, hungover drive to make, so that excuses the audio version). It's unfortunately titled Mommywood, but it is fortunately awesome.
I never paid any attention to Tori Spelling. I vaguely remember scanning some gossipy 90s-era tabloid article (Tori Spelling wears nail polish containing real gold dust?!) in the checkout line at the grocery store. But other than that, the comings and goings of Donna Martin held little interest for me. Until now, my dears.
Unless you live under a rock, you'll know that La Tori has had a bit of a comeback these last few years - two marriages, two babies and several reality shows. I read her first book, StoriTelling - I borrowed it, ok? - watched the ubiquitous "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" and was immediately smitten. I am begrudgingly ready to admit it - I love Tori Spelling.
Possibly because I'm going through the steps to become a mom myself, but listening to that audio CD of Mommywood is strangely comforting. Yes, she discusses lame-o cliches that make her annoyingly Hollywood-trendy - skinny jeans, "gay husbands", Fred Segal. But her dirty diaper and ultrasound stories make her endearing; she is navigating life and parenthood just like everyone else.
For awhile, I had a little ritual during long-ish car trips: I would buy a bag of All-Natural Cheetos, a Coke Zero, and pop in that damned book-on CD. Re-listening to the audio book is like watching a favorite TV Land rerun, and those Cheetos are like crack. Maybe Tori Spelling will read this and take me to Fred Segal with her.

Fresh, clean and easy - favorite roast chicken.

My copy of the Cook Yourself Thin cookbook is so well-used, the pages are dog-eared and random food splatters dot the printed recipes. I love the comfort-food classics, reworked for a healthier diet and smarter choices. A prime example: the herb-roasted chicken with roasted root vegetables. With an organic, antibiotic-free chicken, hastily chopped veggies and fresh herbs, the preparation is simple and the presentation even better. The finished product yields a gloriously browned, flavorful fowl with a heady fragrance and taste. Something about chopping up green herbs, garlic and lemons makes me feel like I've done Julia Child proud. Snap up the cookbook, or check out the recipe at this link: http://www.mylifetime.com/shows/cook-yourself-thin/recipes/easy-herb-roasted-chicken-with-roasted-veggie

Love and Lust Over Richie's "Winter Kate"

I'm positively giddy over Nicole Richie's new clothing line. The former rich-kid party girl has come a long way from the striped hair extensions, tube tops and ill-fitting cutoffs of her “Simple Life” days. Her hippe-chick, hippie-chic style has evolved over the last few years, and her new collection exudes that airy vibe – flowy, Lily Pulitzer-esque tops, floaty cardigans and maxi dresses that would do Biba's Barbara Hulanicki proud. It's vintage fashionista, with a hint of earth-mama thrown in for good measure.

Richie does vintage style justice, and she does it remarkably well. (Her jewelry line is aptly named House of Harlow 1960). At the 2010 Oscars, she pulled off a 70s-esque, billowy-sleeved, backless Reem Acra number with tremendous elan, and I've enviously copied her signature side-swept bangs and mod black eyeliner more times than I can count. Most importantly, the mother of two keeps things understated and effortless, with subtle splashes of glamor. Family park outings find her in a long print dress, jean jacket, flip-flops and oversized designer shades.

Of course, there's the inevitable elephant in the room – given Richie's notoriously pin-thin figure, one might assume that anything she designs would be better suited to a diminutive size-zero frame. Fear not, retro mavens - a good deal of her designs appear to be figure-friendly for a variety of shapes. And while the pieces are not exactly cheap, they retail for much less than the average Louboutin- soaked high-fashion lines. Don't worry darlings, there is plenty of potential to splurge on a pretty top or fringed vest that easily transitions from season to season.

Find Winter Kate items at select Bloomingdale's; or, if you're like me, sadly isolated from the nearest Bloomie's, peruse the internet – just a mouse-click away from shamelessly stealing the fabulous retro style of Ms. Richie.

Style Icon: Lori Maddox

During the early 1970s, the club scene on Los Angeles' famed Sunset Strip ran rife with nubile, wild-child groupies, some barely into their teens and already under the sly sexual tutelage of arena-rock giants like Led Zeppelin and David Bowie. These “L.A. Queens”, as Robert Plant affectionately dubbed them, studded the sidewalk in front of the Rainbow Bar and Grill, owned the dance floor at Rodney Bingenheimer's English Disco and sashayed about their rock 'n roll kingdom in tiny tops and sky-high platform shoes.
At a mere thirteen years old, Lori Maddox was a member of this Lolita troupe, and her heavy-lidded eyes and dark beauty helped to seduce the Dark Prince, Zeppelin's Jimmy Page – among others. Bearing the appropriately glitter-rock moniker of “Lori Lightning”, she pouted sensuously from the pages of the groupie bible Star magazine, her lithe, small-breasted body clad in the briefest of short-shorts, printed scarves wound as halter tops, faux-fur jackets, ripped fishnet stockings and teetery heels.
Lori owned the 70s glam-rock style, a mix of flashy, trashy and funky, vintage and vibrant. Decadent as it was, elements of her look have great potential to blend seamlessly into modern style. In one of of my favorite photos, Lori and Sylvain Sylvain of the New York Dolls pose provocatively in some club, Sylvain giving the photographer a classic bad-boy sneer. Lori is clinging to him, Her body alternately melting into his arm and turning seductively towards the camera, wearing hot pants, a denim jacket and fantastic dark sunglasses under her tangle of thick ebony curls. Before the liquid leggings and Yves St. Laurent heels of modern club girlies, there was the dark angel, tiny dancer, misty mountain mama who slipped out of Jimmy Page's Riot House love nest and into style infamy.